


Logic and Proportion

by astrea_vita



Category: Alice (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Recovered Memories, Team Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 03:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrea_vita/pseuds/astrea_vita
Summary: The meeting with Alice wasn't enough to wake Carpenter up, but it was enough of a push to set things in motion, enough momentum to start getting things unstuck.





	Logic and Proportion

There is a fundamental paradox in imposing the rules of logic upon the laws of emotion. For a scientist to operate in accordance with a methodology on as raw and variable an energy as feelings, they must have a mind that can walk between both worlds, never underestimating one over the other.

Carpenter, a practical man surrounded by highly impractical people, is sufficiently well-versed in the complexities of emotions to map his own internal landscape. Since he gets to ride in the front deck of the scarab on the way back to the casino – they separated him from the Resistance contingent – he also has the luxury (or burden) of time and silence in which to do so.

That wasn't his aim when he shushed Number Ten and insisted on some peace and quiet - he was working on refinements for one of the sedatives when his assistants took him away earlier, and thought he might have the variables resolved by the time they get back. The higher-ranking Suits are not encouraged to maintain periods of silence, but Carpenter's reputation as a tetchy, high-strung workaholic does wonders for preventing people from pestering him. Also, Ten skews a little inane when he knows he's supposed to look cheerful. Carpenter doesn't dislike Ten particularly, but in his uncharitable moments he thinks the man is only that awkward because he has nothing better to do. In his charitable moments, he'd like to think he's doing Ten a favor by relieving him of the burden of making conversation.

He quickly realizes that he is, for once, struggling to steer his thoughts back to his lab, and resigns himself to taking the half-hour or so to organize and tidy the troubling past few hours, neatly catalogued as follows:

  * Item one: the urge to get back to his work. That feeling is like an old friend, like the Walrus, a constant reminder of his purpose, with sub-itemizations:
  * \- irritation, at being interrupted;
  * \- frustration, at being prevented from returning;
  * \- satisfaction, at being so engrossed in the process that time slips away unheeded;
  * \- comfort, at knowing he is where he needs to be.


  * Item two: distraction, a nagging ache under the skin at his hairline and in his eyebrows, a strain of effort, a suspicion that he has forgotten something. The lack of focus that called for this mental tally, dutifully taken up.


  * Item three: stubbornness, a pushing back against the suspicion, an affirmation of his own mental fortitude to resist manipulation.


  * Item four: doubt. Determination is all very well in the face of a fabricated story, no matter how much the sentiments draw attention to themselves, but that explanation fails to account for the following sub-items:
  * \- He didn't get ' _Jelly-Bean'_ from her.
  * \- He might be able to find an excuse for the instinct to shield her from gunshots – enough to satisfy the suits, if questioned - but nothing to satisfy his own mind. He cannot account for the automatic nature of the action, the lack of forethought or conscious decision, an override program over his own instincts and reflexes.



Whether that young woman is his daughter or not, his own subconscious is making a loud and pointed argument for the possibility that he has one.

  * In the throne rom, he adds item five: the Queen is blithely confident that he has no daughter. The King is not.



His Majesty is sharper than he likes to pretend, though perhaps not enough to discuss this matter _out_ of Carpenter's earshot. He seems genuinely rattled by the possibility that the Prince's plan could succeed, and while the Queen may be able to sway court opinion to her way of thinking through sheer force of personality, Carpenter has always considered the King's judgment to be the more reliable of the two. Of all the things to cause the fractures in his trust, it _would_ be that.

Carpenter has not kept his head the past fifteen years just because his work is indispensable (though that may have made him a little more complacent of late). Whatever doubts he may be having, they will not make themselves known in the throne room.

It doesn't take a genius to tell the Queen what she wants to hear. Nor does it take a scientific expert in the emotions to recognize the devastation on the young woman's face, even through the layers of transparent sheeting.

Dismissed, he turns away.

*

"What is your name?"

"Sam. No, Stan." Glassy-eyed, Carpenter's problem-subject stares across the room. "Wait – Stewart. I'm pretty sure it's Stewart."

Carpenter flicks his eyes around the lab. The Walrus is occupied three tables to his right; the junior techs subdued and nervously on task. He's pretty sure they don't know much more than the fact that he and the senior techs disappeared this afternoon and only he returned. They know better than to ask.

The last fifteen years of his life are quite where they ought to be in his head. Everything before that is... there, but it's a funny color. The tones are muted, like one picture painted over another. When he scratches at it, the garish reds and cold silvers flake and chip until they grudgingly reveal patches of yellow underneath. A house, yes, the girl said as much, though nothing about the yellow carpet of leaves in the yard and a yellow dress and the sunflowers in the side garden bed; a bright golden afternoon, cloudless, every edge sharpening into an uncannily-shaped reality when he sees the face of the woman holding the box. In rapid succession, contentment gives way to foreboding; then to anger, misplaced; an urge to blame, dissipated; a frustrated helplessness, a rallying of strength, a tender grief.

There's a cat in a box and it's definitely dead and the woman calls him by a name that is not Carpenter.

"Keep looking forward," he murmers. "Listen carefully. There's just water in this aerosol spray. When I use it, drop your head. Don't look at me, don't answer when I speak, don't say a word to anyone."

The oysters watch him out the corners of their eyes. Stewart darts his back to center. A beat later, he blinks – once, slowly, unmistakably. Carpenter nods and sprays them in succession. They each drop their heads obediently into the fine mist.

"What is your name?"

They don't answer.

Barely a whisper, he confides, "I'm looking for my name, too."

_*_

There's a part of Carpenter's insatiable scientific curiosity that would like to study the Truth Room sometime. It is invariably overruled by the rest of his judgment, because dimensional ambiguity gives him the heebie-jeebies.

The place was developed by his predecessor. More accurately, the enclosure of that malleable bit of reality into a finite space occurred before Carpenter was working for the Queen. It presents all sorts of interesting potential, but when people's minds were so often their own worst enemies, a physical environment _that_ readily subject to mental manipulation is predisposed to the nasty side of developing that potential. This is handy if you want to make its visitors unwitting instruments in their own interrogation and torture, which the Queen... does. Enough of that over the years, and the cumulative psychic build-up in the place will induce mental oblivion before the next poor soul even knows what hit them.

Mostly, though, it's Dee and Dum that freak him out, because he can't even begin to fathom what kind of mind can become accustomed to the place, never mind _enjoy_ it.

Speaking of terrifying sadists; Mad March is in the viewing chamber.

_"Whaddya want."_

The ceramic head is about as unreadable and unnerving as March's original, though Carpenter considers it an improvement - March was always an incongruous sort of figure, so the visual reminder helps him remember what he's dealing with.

"We've been refining the Honest-tea," Carpenter says mildly, fighting down his trepidation. March's head twitches. Most of the techs give him the same reaction and pointedly refer to it as a truth serum. Nobody appreciates his puns. Hell, not even Nobody appreciates his puns. "Thought it might be useful, since we have Resistance insiders in for questioning."

He glances out. The Truth Room is the wrong color.

The prisoner bound in the rickety chair looks lively enough, at least, so Carpenter might not be too late.

 _"I know this guy. Lies ain't your problem. We're not getting anything useful out of him, they're just playing with their food now. The last two went down like -"_ March snaps his fingers, which is something of a feat, considering that he wears gloves.

Carpenter hides a wince. He's pretty sure March means his assistants. "Well - if I could just have a few minutes, it would help me shore up our baseline data. Even if it still comes down to 'subjects tell the truth but don't answer the questions.'"

_"Better do it quick while you still got something left to work with."_

"Right."

A crackle, a strangled yell, and an answering giggle come through the speakers hooked into the Truth Room itself. Dee and Dum have broken out the electrical wands.

Carpenter doesn't move.

" _Aww. You scared of them?"_

Carpenter grimaces but doesn't respond. The porcelain head twitches again. This time, he's pretty sure it's in amusement.

" _Chase 'em off for ya. Just this once."_

The door disappears behind them when they step out of the viewing room. He hates that bit. He's going to have nightmares about getting stuck here and trying to find it, if he survives the experience in the first place.

The room should really be blue, he's sure of it.

"How kind of you to join us," Dum oozes when they approach.

It might be Dum. Carpenter can't tell, so he's just going to pick one and stick with it. He pulls a vial of clear liquid from his lab coat.

"I'm here to run some tests."

"A proper tea party! Shall we break out the bread and butter?" Dee produces a knife from a convenient patch of void and presses the tip under Hatter's ear. "Cut us another slice?"

"That won't be necessary. In fact, it would be helpful if there were fewer variables, if you could give us a few minutes..."

Dee frowns. Dum pouts.

" _You heard the man,"_ March snaps. _"Get lost!"_

They heave a pair of put-upon sighs in unison. Dee nicks Hatter's jaw as he pulls the knife away. The doctors sidle away, sparring lazily with the electric prods and chortling when they shock each other.

" _Piece of cake."_

Carpenter watches them go with a look of distaste, trying to figure out his next move.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk," Hatter mutters, staring at the ground, opening and closing his hands around the arms of the chair. "Clockwork's not ticking properly."

Carpenter looks at his watch. The watch. The one the girl said was his.

" _You're going to be late, Dad, wake_ up!"

The yellow on his arm chips away. His sleeve is knitted and green and the lava lamp is blue and _he overslept again_.

March twitches. " _Where'd you get that?"_

"Verbal Override, zero-one-two-seven-one-eight-three-two" he says with the same set of inflections he would have used for 'Birthday gift from my wife.'

 _"Authorization verified."_ March's head twitches to center. His accent is gone.

Hatter jerks his head upright, wincing from the movement.

"Stand by until further command," Carpenter adds, letting out a breath. 

_"Standing by."_

"How did you do that?" Hatter watches him with wary eyes, testing the belts around his wrists.

"His mind is mostly computer now." Carpenter's mouth moves in hollow-voiced, automatic explanation. He's still Carpenter, which is just as well, because Carpenter knows what he's doing. The existence of another name is more reality than hazy possibility, but it's not as nearby as Carpenter, and not as loud as 'Dad.' His eyes follow a rising neon blob in two colors and two realities. His heart starts to pound, and the room pulses with it. "I thought it could do with some fail-safe software. Certainly could have used it back when he had his old head."

"No kidding." Hatter flinches when Carpenter's eyes focus and he darts forward, going for the buckle of the belt strapped around Hatter's right arm. "What's going on?"

"I'm doing something very stupid and very dangerous. Which is why I thought I'd consult an expert." One hand freed, Hatter goes for the other belt, expression suspicious but quizzical. "That would be you," Carpenter clarifies. Hatter opens his mouth to retort, makes a face, and closes it. "I don't suppose you've seen my assistants?"

Hatter freezes as he's getting up from the chair. The belt clanks to the floor. "I don't think there's anything we can do for them."

Carpenter sighs and closes his eyes. "Okay. We need to leave before the twins come back."

"You know how to get out?" Hatter sounds hopeful in a way that suggests he does not want to be for fear of disappointment.

"Well -" Carpenter looks around. "Right. March, find the door."

March does an about-face and stalks away. The distance bends around him, folds into corners, and lets in a rectangle of light that leads back into the viewing. Hatter shoots him an impressed look and darts to a corner to retrieve his hat and coat.

"How long have we got before they sound the alarms? They had the suits on our tail pretty quick last time."

 _Last time?_ "There's a control booth." Carpenter grins. "Never met a console that didn't like me. I can shut them off and lock them in."

"Nice," Hatter says encouragingly, and then squints at him. "What exactly are we planning to do?"

"Well – hold that thought, I gotta figure this out."

A loaded silence follows as he scans the buttons, and then Hatter says, "You don't have a plan, do you?"

By way of reply, he pulls a lever that sends a bar down over the door they came through, and unlatches the door leading out. (It was the same one March used to let them in. This is why he pays attention in class.)

"It's a work in progress," he concedes.

"Figures." Hatter rolls his eyes extravagantly, or tries, and winces mid-way through. "Look, work with me a second. Pretend I just got my brains fried out – why are you helping me? Are you Resistance?"

"Not... exactly."

His memories aren't coming back in a flood so much as they've abruptly reasserted themselves. He presses his hand to his forehead, digging his thumb into his left temple.

"Oh my god," Hatter says, staring at his left arm. "That's - you're _Alice's father?_ Oh, for the love of - 'course you're Alice's dad, why not? It's not like this day was done getting any weirder."

 _Alice._ Well, at least they've narrowed down a priority.

"We need to find her. The Queen's going to have her executed."

"Right." The slightly hysterical annoyance vanishes from Hatter's face, replaced with a calculating focus. "They didn't bring her here. Are there - holding cells or something? A dungeon? Do you know who would know?"

"Probably, no, and yes." Robert Hamilton nods to himself, weighing out the scenario. "I've got a plan now."

**Author's Note:**

> This show was baby's first fandom, and I feel like I still get something neat out of it every time I watch it. This fic was a little experimental - I'm trying to get the hang of writing dreams and emotions and memories, and I was really curious about the mental process Carpenter has to go through as he 'wakes up.' Hope you guys enjoyed this - there may be more to it, if I figure out what his plan is.


End file.
